Hipsters
by Persephone Price
Summary: Ichabod learns a new word at Starbucks.


**Author's Note: I hope you all like this!**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

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People stare at them when they walk down the street.

Abbie notices and so does Ichabod, to a lesser extent. She thinks maybe she's just hyperaware of the heads turning when they walk down the sidewalk. It stirs something foreign in her, something strangely but distinctly protective. He's an over-six-foot-tall Englishman in Sleepy Hollow who dresses like something straight out of the history books. He's an anomaly. But he's _her_ anomaly.

And it's not just when they walk down the street, but more or less wherever they go. Abbie does try to be sympathetic to it – she would stare, too, if she didn't know him. But she can't deny that it doesn't bother her at least a little bit.

Sometimes people mistake him for one of those weirdoes who reenacts scenes from the Revolutionary War, and other times crotchety old-timers grumble about the fashion choices of today's youth, which seems especially ironic.

"What is a hipster?" he asks her once as they're leaving Starbucks with their unflavored coffees in tow. The question seems especially out of the blue, even for him.

"What?"

"A hipster," he explains. "A gentleman rather rudely muttered 'damn hipsters' under his breath as I passed." As he gestures back to the building to indicate where the exchange took place, his brows are knitted together in earnest confusion.

Usually, Abbie is able offer him explanations for his questions regarding modernity. Her definition of Internet memes was a lost cause, but generally she thought she was pretty adept at clarifying things. However, she now found herself struggling to find the right words.

"It's sort of like a fashion style," she tries, her eyes wandering up and down his figure as she considers him. Her scrutiny causes him to straighten his already-perfect posture and fold one arm nobly over the front of his coat; the other hand cradles his Styrofoam cup. He does have a certain regal-shabby chic look about him, but she wouldn't go so far as to call him a hipster.

She knows it's not _just _a fashion trend, but the task of explaining the concept of 'meta' and everything else that she thinks hipsters talk about to Crane is just out of the realm of things she is prepared to do today.

"Do you think my current mode of dress matches this 'style,' as you say?"

"Not really," she shrugs. "It's gotta be the beard."

"Yes, I have noticed that facial hair is not so fashionable as it once was," he admits, scratching his jaw self-consciously.

"And your hair is long," she adds.

"Yes, my hair is longer than the average male's in this era," he agrees, pushing a few stray tendrils behind his ear.

"_And_ your outfit is… Well, you know," she continues absentmindedly.

He looks down at himself and repeats, "Yes…"

"God, maybe you _do_ look like a hipster," she says finally, as if she is having a revelation.

He is taken aback, especially as she walks in front of him and towards her car without another word.

When they get back to Corbin's cabin, she interrogates Jenny about it. Without any sort of introduction to the topic, she asks abruptly, "Do you think he looks like a hipster?" when they walk though the door.

Jenny stares at him for a long moment, unfazed by the question. "He looks like a long-lost member of Mumford & Sons. Why?"

Abbie turns and observes him again contemplatively. Ichabod squirms under the sisters' intense attention to his appearance, suddenly regretting his seemingly-innocent question. He does not ask who these "Mumford" sons are for fear of opening another set of floodgates.

"Someone called him a hipster at Starbucks. You really think so?"

"Oh yeah," Jenny asserts, "No question. Slap a pair of black-frame glasses on him and throw him into Brooklyn, he'd fit right in… Which is probably why the government hasn't shown up yet to take him away and study him, come to think of it."

Before Ichabod has a chance to inquire as to why on earth the government would do such a thing, she pulls the laptop lying on the table towards her and wrenches it open. He will never cease to be amazed how people in this age can move their fingers with such speed and ferocity. After a moment, she turns the screen so that he and Abbie can see. "Look," she instructs.

They are confronted with the image of four men holding musical instruments.

"Hm. You're right," Abbie acknowledges.

"What is this?" he asks cautiously.

"Mumford & Sons," Jenny states.

He squints his eyes to properly inspect the photograph, and a look of outrage overtakes his features. "I do not look like _that_!" he exclaims. "These men are clearly in dire need of a good washing, and I possess no such unsightly hat."

"Didn't you used to wear a hat in the Revolution?" Abbie teases.

He misses the sarcasm in her tone. "Well, yes, but it was a standard leather tricorn – it looked nothing like these – these atrocities."

Abbie chuckles and Jenny quips helpfully, "They're called fedoras."

"Regardless of what they are called, I really must insist that I in now way resemble these… buffoons."

"Look who's getting defensive," Abbie baits with a smirk. " I didn't mean to insult your swag." Sometimes, she likes to toss words that she knows he doesn't understand into the conversation just to irritate him.

His eyes quickly scan her and his lips part as if he wants to say something argumentative, but he soon realizes that she is taunting him. He opts to take the higher road, and instead of replying he disappears into the kitchen to fetch a biscuit to have with his coffee.

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**Author's Note: Before anyone has a chance to be offended, I must insist that this is all purely meant in jest! Mumford & Sons is one of my favorite (if not _the_ favorite) bands. I hope you all liked it! Let me know!**


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